Birth was not a choice,
yet its where it all began.
A struggle to keep my sanity
but I'm here now and that's the penalty!
Identity crisis in the void eyes of the public,
hunting for a sense of being and hope for belonging.
Haunted persistently by the cadavers of my lost dreams.
Tried selling my dreams, I'll share that story when I'm done serving my time.
The authors of my existence turned authors of my distortion.
They could have just left me a damaged oddity,
yet here we are, season 19, still re-living the grievous tale.
I was auctioned off to this cruel world as ignorant as a tone-deaf comedian.
Somehow I blazed a trail of questionable puns,
don't question it, first let me get of my high.
Neglected cannot suffice,
because their attention was a double-edged sword.
When I look into those eyes and all I see is my reflection.
Dear Merlin my captor could you at least take accountability?
I might not be okay where I am and I might never be understood.
All witnesses contradict my story, is it safe to say I lied?
"Make lemonade" they said,
but the whip was faster than the knife I was not supposed to have.
Suddenly the pain was nonexistent,
but the bucket did a better job than the cockerel.
It seems I'm a vile concoction, brewed in a witches cauldron.
For long have they kept the lid on,
who's going to tell them its now ten sizes small?
They sealed up the opening in hopes keeping the contents anonymous,
yet all they did was cause pressure to accumulate
Now I can't be blamed if I explode now can I?
I can still be saved right?
Or so, is the thought that haunts me every night.
The idea of freedom sounds so foreign,
just the mention of it sends my pulse into a frenzy.
They forced me to remove my bandaid,
labelling it a sympathy flier.
Yet in the crevices of their hollow chests lay a secret urge,
summoning flies to parade on my wounds.
They made this atrocity and have since escaped to their pity party .
I'm already on edge, running on a burnt fuse.
I feel set off like a time bomb,
Good day' is the equivalent of cutting the wrong wire.
I know, I know the love was non-existent,
but can I be blamed for hoping?
All I've been doing is survive.
They've made sure of that,
for the game ends when the target is just but sponge of bullets.
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 2:36 AM UTC
Birth was not a choice,
yet its where it all began.
A struggle to keep my sanity
but I'm here now and that's the penalty!
Identity crisis in the void eyes of the public,
hunting for a sense of being and hope for belonging.
Haunted persistently by the cadavers of my lost dreams.
Tried selling my dreams, I'll share that story when I'm done serving my time.
The authors of my existence turned authors of my distortion.
They could have just left me a damaged oddity,
yet here we are, season 19, still re-living the grievous tale.
I was auctioned off to this cruel world as ignorant as a tone-deaf comedian.
Somehow I blazed a trail of questionable puns,
don't question it, first let me get of my high.
Neglected cannot suffice,
because their attention was a double-edged sword.
When I look into those eyes and all I see is my reflection.
Dear Merlin my captor could you at least take accountability?
I might not be okay where I am and I might never be understood.
All witnesses contradict my story, is it safe to say I lied?
"Make lemonade" they said,
but the whip was faster than the knife I was not supposed to have.
Suddenly the pain was nonexistent,
but the bucket did a better job than the cockerel.
It seems I'm a vile concoction, brewed in a witches cauldron.
For long have they kept the lid on,
who's going to tell them its now ten sizes small?
They sealed up the opening in hopes keeping the contents anonymous,
yet all they did was cause pressure to accumulate
Now I can't be blamed if I explode now can I?
I can still be saved right?
Or so, is the thought that haunts me every night.
The idea of freedom sounds so foreign,
just the mention of it sends my pulse into a frenzy.
They forced me to remove my bandaid,
labelling it a sympathy flier.
Yet in the crevices of their hollow chests lay a secret urge,
summoning flies to parade on my wounds.
They made this atrocity and have since escaped to their pity party .
I'm already on edge, running on a burnt fuse.
I feel set off like a time bomb,
Good day' is the equivalent of cutting the wrong wire.
I know, I know the love was non-existent,
but can I be blamed for hoping?
All I've been doing is survive.
They've made sure of that,
for the game ends when the target is just but sponge of bullets.
My Hell Their Circus Track 5
